


etymology

by minarchy



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minarchy/pseuds/minarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smoke wasn't necessary, really. But he had long discovered the importance of the theatrical with these simple minds, the power of drama. And it amused him, endlessly, to see the shock on their smooth, dark faces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	etymology

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Этимология](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450076) by [urbanmagician](https://archiveofourown.org/users/urbanmagician/pseuds/urbanmagician)



Azazel.

That was what they were calling him now, these humans. It was a simple name, a _human_ name, confined within their simple language and laughable in its etymology.

The _sender-away_.

Still, he did not reject it, for what was a name, to him? His own people did not converse in the same way that these static-stagnant-fleeting did, and it was fitting enough, considering how they saw him. The humans had an insatiable desire to _name_ everything, to categorise their surroundings with words spit-short and meaningless that held no reverence or acknowledgement to the length that the land had existed before them; their gods and demons were no exception. Azazel was both, to different people (and, sometimes to the same). His own name was – long. It held _power_.

They worshipped him. Chanted the name they had given him into their bloodbaths and fires and carven patterns in desert sand, and sometimes, if he was bored, he would appear to them. A twist of his mind and a press at the fabric of reality and he _moved_ , flitted across creation to appear reeking before them. The smoke wasn't necessary, really. But he had long discovered the importance of the theatrical with these simple minds, the power of _drama_. And it amused him, endlessly, to see the shock on their smooth, dark faces.

The Cheyarafim did not approve; not of his people and certainly not of their position as gods of the little race. They had always been jealous of the Neyaphem, and proud of their stupid, overbearing code. They never approved. Azazel didn't mind; he enjoyed the fight. He would never have another opponent more worthy of his swordmanship.

But they lost the war, and that was a shock to Azazel. Even more so than the shock of the bittter cold of that Other Place to which the Cheyarafim banished them. He hadn't believed it possible to lose. That was his hubris, he knew, but it was their pride that was their undoing. In casting the Neyaphem into the Other Place, they had thought that they had won. But they had forgotten why Azazel had been given his name.

Cross-dimensional teleportation _hurt_.

It hurt more when the Other Place pulled him back.

Still, he was able to return to Earth for long enough periods to see how the Cheyarafim were spreading lies throughout the history of the humans. Now, there was much desire to be pale and golden and broad and strong. The humans worshipped the Cheyarafim, now, and the Cheyarafim made certain that the Neyaphem were, for lack of a better word, _demonised_.

Azazel came to be synonymous with _scapegoat_. He never got over the irony.

He waited millenia in their frozen prison, escaping only momentarily, watching the influence of the Cheyarafim causing the humans to burn his half-breed children. Sometimes, he thought it was because the Cheyarafim were deliberately sabotaging his attempts to solidify a connection with their dimension. But the Cheyarafim had left the humans behind as well. They would not adhere to their morality, and they had become bored of enforcing their laws. Azazel could not understand that. He would never get bored of humans.

 

It had been so long that he almost didn't recognise the summonings when they came, twisting through the cracks between worlds and latching into his consciousness, guiding him, _pulling_ him through the narrow portal. When he landed, he thought that he had been wrong, that the humans had not been calling him at all; the landscape was the same, the ice still sticking to his skin and ripping his bare flesh open. But then he saw the humans in front of him (although this was wrong, he discovered later, but at that first moment he was dizzy and disorientated and so _cold_ and all his senses had been dulled by ice and blood a long time ago).

Only the Russians would have tried to summon a demon to help them in their wars. As if Azazel had any opinion about their pathetic conflicts. Russia was cold, but it was warm in the summer, and the portal (and the lack of Cheyarafim to force him back by sheer strength of will, but he chose not to think of that, chose not to think of how much the Other Place had weakened him) had shattered the tether that had bound him to his prison. He liked the language, too; harsh and round and full of too many syllables.

His old name still held all the fearsome connotations that it had before the War. Shaw, upon hearing it, thought that it was one that Azazel had chosen for himself (which is not an indirect truth, given that he did not reject it); due, presumably, to his appearance, which seemed to reflect humanity's new (or not-so-new) vision of demons. Azazel heard the implications that he was giving himself a title beyond his power, but he did not bother to correct Shaw. The man – mutant – was very powerful, given his origins in the human gene pool, and Azazel was very much weakened. Besides, the betrayal of his people by the humans still rankled, and it wasn't too much of a trial to sign up to Shaw's vendetta against them.

(He did not approve of what he had done to the boy, though. Azazel remembered scapegoat and could never approve.

But the humans were making these new people into scapegoats, now, letting their fear of them bleed into the leftover morality of the Cheyarafim, and Azazel saw the flickering of wings behind their eyes.

Many mornings, now, he would awaken from the alien concept of 'sleep' and fumble for the complex syllables of his real name. Many mornings, he would awake and say the wrong name.

He had been wrong: the names that humans gave them held power, too. Demon. Scapegoat. Mutant. He was none of these things, but he could not remember what he had been before the War. His people were still trapped and freezing. He would look at the swelling belly of the shapeshifter, and dream of bringing them back.)


End file.
